


the stones

by summerson



Series: know that I'm with you the only way that I can be [2]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: All Aboard the Pain Train!, Angst, Closure, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Magicats, Redemption, catradora, glimadora if you squint?, magicat culture, sorry - Freeform, the magicats are a desert people, yeah it's still sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 03:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerson/pseuds/summerson
Summary: “The stone place.” C’orin explains. His voice thrumming in and out his chest as he watches the magicats mill about the stone stacks. “It’s an ancient practice S’ya and the elders have managed to preserve from Queen C’yra’s reign. Ahm…the ah-first…that is.” C’orin clears his throat as he averts his eyes in humble embarrassment. Catra doesn’t pay it any mind but to ask the lingering nagging question itching at the back of her throat.“…what is it?”
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: know that I'm with you the only way that I can be [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574200
Comments: 35
Kudos: 169





	the stones

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the short blurb ‘white lie.’ You don’t need to have read that one first to understand this story but I highly recommend doing so as it adds some background context. (if you’ve already read it drop in again! I had time to go back and edit)

S’ya tries to make her visits fairly regular and habitual in the evenings. Coming to Catra deep into the folds of night and her nesting tent, when it’s quiet, and most of New Half Moon is blanketed in by the milky ways and stardust skies. The she-cat will slip in quiet and light with barely a ruffle or whisper of her linen threads to say she was there at all beforegently tugging at Catra’s scruff like some magicat mother with a dumb, deaf, helpless kit. And Catra, dead limbed and limp, will only manage to squeeze her eyes shut and let the elder magicat pull her gently onto the floor and prop her up so that she’s seated cross legged between her legs.

Catra's ears fold and press back down onto her scalp as S'ya settles readjusts the bare threaded blanket around her bare back, encircled around and encircling around her arms in an encasing embrace. Catra brings the fold to up to her face and presses her nose into the scratchy threads.

The rest of the night is spent like that. The two of them heaped on the floor upon the vibrantly dyed cushions while S’ya does her best to groom and care for Catra’s tangle matted mane. The nightly hours spent brushing down the fur on her arms and back with a stiff bristle bone comb, speaking low and quiet about the day and business in her honey thick accent. How Bright Moon’s reconstruction efforts are going. How Scorpia’s rule over what remains of the Fright Zone has been good for trade. Politics.

Catra doesn’t really listen. Just digs her claws into the soft underside of her crossed legs while S’ya’s cinnamon spiced scent lulls her to something like sleep.

__________

One day she manages to get word of Dryl. The kingdom having just declared it’s fully fledged independence from Bright Moon in its reconstructive efforts. She doesn’t know what to feel once she’s alone again and can think to process it. She doesn’t have any idea what to feel at all. So she doesn't. Later that night, when S’ya arrives with a dinner that she probably intends to force feed down Catra’s throat, it’s confirmed.

“Yes. Dryl is once again it’s own state. Sun blessed we need not house them anymore.” S’ya’s voice sounds low and smooth like dark coffee, only just ruffling in distaste at the memory of the heady scent of metal and oil that Entrapta's robots came with. Their loud and abrasive clanking and whirring having sent everyone's fur on edge for the duration of their stay. S'ya's deep and umber brown fur matches the rumbling baritone purrs she emits when she speaks again. “A visit perhaps. Once your sentence is past.” S’ya’s frailer hand combs down through Catra’s mane. The knots and mats growing like weeds in the length of hair and tufted fur. If not for S’ya’s grooming, she’s sure she would’ve scratched and torn them out to the bloody roots.

“I’d rather not think about it right now.” Catra mumbles, her voice a little scratchy and torn.

“Aye…the present is all that concerns us now. Your mother used to tell me that when we were children.”

Catra tucks her head down to her chest. Hands limp and hanging in the cross of her legs as she lets S’ya brush and tug through the knots. “We were close, your mother and I.” She relays while working at a particularly aggressive knot by gripping the roots to keep from tugging at the scalp. Untangling and pulling loose the tight clumps in one fluid motion. “It hurt terribly to lose her that day.”

Catra’s jaw locks and her fangs ache from the pressure. Eyes going hazy from the blooming blur.

“I understand that you and Adora were close -“

“Aunt S’ya.”

The comb rests to a halt down the length of Catra's bare spine as Catra's breathing hitches and the lump in her throat threatens to choke her out.

“Can we just - not tonight…” Catra’s feels her chest cavity ache and expand with her next breath, shallow and waning. “Please?”

…

“…try to eat something.”

__________

The magicat queen is kept busy during most of the day. What with running New Half Moon _and_ facilitating the remaining Plumerian refugees it’s surprising she even makes time for her nightly visits. That being said, she refuses to let Catra waste away unattended in her tent for the entirety of the days and thus entrusts her to the kind hearted and gentle magicat guards. It becomes something like a routine when they arrive every day and help dress her in the light breathable linens, gently pulling and guiding each arm and lanky limb through the sleeves and wrappings while patiently waiting for Catra to adjust. A tender eyed bracken mane rumbles warm and appraising as they place a brightly dyed desert cloak around her shoulders, the ends of her fur tufts peeking out from the cropped sleeves and escaping at the frays, baggy and free - tidy and cropped neat and sleek in the folds of fabric.

It feels...comfortable. Loose and flowing in a way her constrictive horde uniform never allowed for. Catra runs a thumb over the Half Moon crest stitched into the shoulder patch. White and red stitching threaded threaded through the moon and sword insignia settled on her heart.

They take her to all sorts of places, tugging and herding her around the camp grounds by guiding with the length of their tails. It honestly makes her feel a bit sheepish. Being treated like a kit without having yet opened it’s eyes. Plants an old seed of resentment somewhere in her gut and awakens a growl set to bubble in her throat.

But the sun is bright and blinding. And the heat is deep and thrumming. Soothing her bones and joints in a way that quiets her as the magiciats idle her around during the day.

They take her to the the outskirts of camp where the old tom cats and grey manes smoke their pipes in front of their tents. Playing sickle with glass pieces and rudimentary boards drawn into the sand.

To the water wells where the mothers have their kits help pull jugs of sloshing spring water back to camp in a trailing ant line. The kittens losing two thirds of their quota to to the sands and impromptu water fights.

They walk her through the hustle and bustle of the food tents where the chefs skin and flay the game. Where they cook the meat in wide iron pans that arc longer than both her arms outstretched and pulled wide. Metal disks burning atop deep set fire pits and clay ovens that roar and crackle hot embers. They bring her to the scholars with their hanging scrolls and stacks of books. Ocular glass pieces and crystals dangling in open air. To magicians and sorcerers who have alchemic runes and texts painted deep into their downy fur. Incense sticks trailing smoke tails into the open air. The hunters’s guild. The mother’s nursery. The traders and craftsmen.

Story weavers and dancers.

Artisans.

Healers.

Newly appointed astronomers.

And they take her to the sun wash rocks. Situated high up above the entire camp where Catra can pause and lift her nose to the earthy breeze and scent the ocean on the other side of the dunes. Where the sky is a clear blanketing sheet of spherical blue and the yellow trendils of sun beat down and radiate heat from below, sends her insides glowing soft bone deep vibrations. And she can lay down and let her spine unwind with the familiar ease of relaxation. But in an aching painful way that’s just on the far side of soreful and bliss.

It feels like exhaling the weight of the world.

The walks are never long and Catra returns to her tent as soon as her guards offer. Tail trailing behind her as she re enters into the cool shadows and slumping back into the floor cushions and blankets. The sound the people milling about like the echoing ripples of a pond outside laying her back down into darkness.

__________

Catra comes to an unassuming and jarring halt when she catches sight of them for the first time, the ends of her ears flicking to pricked attention. The dry desert air buffering around her as the sands shift and bow under the weight of the winds. She pays it no mind only to narrow her eyes against the glare.

“Princess C’yra?”

One of her guards, a yellow maned and slender shouldered tom, stops short as Catra plants her feet in the sand and slips out the arc of his guiding tail. Catra remains rigid and fixed as the sky above. Focus never wavering from the pinpoint in her sight.

“My lady?” His voice at Catra's side is low and quiet, willfully patient and measured with maturity, a tone Catra might’ve found tedious and tiresome if she felt to care. His gaze trails the line of Catra’s sight in confusion, ears flicking when he catches sight, his gaze gradually willowing back to mull over Catra’s features in pensive contemplation. Through the din in her head, she can almost feel the shadow of him hover near, inquisitive yet reserved. Curious.

“C’orin? What of it, then?”

The young tom flicks his tail without straying from Catra’s face. His head tilted slightly to the side in curiosity before he speaks. “Take a moment everyone. Rest your feet if you can.”

The few magicat guards assigned to her escort disperse loosely in a close knit group, never straying far but offering a small buffer of privacy as they mull and wander a few tail lengths away.

C’orin stays close to her side. Eyes flickering back to the rocky cliffside where a wide open cave hollow is carved out the side like an amphitheater.

It’s not a deep cavern. The length of it only running about a number of feet into the red rock. Layers of sediment bands scarring across the surface like magi cat stripes. But it’s wide and arcing and the many shelves of cliff rock climb and amble up the inside like platforms.

When Catra narrows her eyes against the glare she can finally see them clearly.

Stones. Stacked in a ranging array of size and form. Small wiry pebbles that climb up into tall columns. And thick obelisk rocks that stack maybe three to four tiers tall. When Catra’s eyes adjust she realizes they litter the cavern. Arcing up into the high reaches above where stack upon stack and tower upon tower sit silent and sturdy amidst the number of magiciats milling about the shelves of rock. Doing exactly what…Catra couldn’t say.

“The stone place.” C’orin explains. His voice thrumming in and out his chest as he watches the magicats mill about the stone stacks. “It’s an ancient practice S’ya and the elders have managed to preserve from Queen C’yra’s reign. Ahm…the ah-first…that is.” C’orin clears his throat as he averts his eyes in humble embarrassment. Catra doesn’t pay it any mind but to ask the lingering nagging question itching at the back of her throat.

“…what _is_ it?”

C’orin sobers and pricks his ears then, smoothing down the folds of his cape before he eventually speaks. “Would you like to see?”

**__________**

The cave is shaded and guarded against the sun when they step in. The sand under her feet hissing from the heat of her footsteps as they tread quietly into the sacred air. Catra is immediately aware of the weight and reverence it carries as she pulls her cloak around her and eyes the stone stacks from a respectable distance.

“Magicats have always stacked stones” C’orin hums as he leads her up ambling sandstone steps through shelves and shelves of red rock. “In remembrance.” He explains.

Catra eyes the grey maned magicat curled over in a bowing arc as they pass. The hushed whisperings of their muttering culminating and mulling over with the soft spoken tones that echo throughout the cave. The entire outcropping hums with it like a deep set purr that thrums through her bones like echoes, shifting down and reverberating back up the well she peers down into it's depths. Her ears flick. Prick to attention at the murmurings of words half spoken, phrases half sung in the dark fallen in hushing tones. Some of it spoken in english. From what she can discern in the din she can recognize the magicat dialect as well. It folds slower than common tounge...rises with the breadth in a way that expands and shudders through the lungs. It's a sort of...airy quality, she decides, that lilts and tucks with the shape of the vowels and whistles keenly on the uptake. But even the distinct sounds of the mother tounge are drowned out here in the rush. Colliding and mingling together in the swirl and eddies of wave after wave of reverant sound. C'orin speaks over his shoulder and leads on, higher and higher.

“The elders say if one holds a vigil they might hope to speak with the fallen.” He says as he steps aside onto one of the overhanging outcroppings and places a clawed hand on a sturdy alter of flat-stones, Catra steps onto the outcropping, shining daylight casting a blinding backdrop of light as she looks past the cliff face. Catra's arm lowers gradually as her eyes adjust and squints blearily through the unkempt strands of her mane. 

But as her vision locks into place and focus she can see clearly what C'orin had meant to show her. The stones of this tower are flat and sturdy at the base, devolving in size as it runs up in height and narrowing at the crest. And when she looks closer, Catra can see the collection of flower petals- some wilted, some new - scattered at the base, a little pot of incense rested on the rock shelf nearby. And a string of beads hung across the capstone and dangled down casted bare against the light of the sun, the barest tease of a breeze to bear it's only disturbance....

C'orin bows and bends his forehead to the altar and whispers something Catra sheepishly doesn't understand. S'ya had of course been giving her lessons but...well her rudimentary grasp of the language hadn't really evolved past simple vocabulary. The instinctual tones just never fell into place, didn't feel natural like the way it probably should. Catra couldn't manage the nuances and pitches that came with certain words, certain phrases. She didn't even want to think about the state of her conjugations. It almost makes her press her ears flat to her head when C'orin rises and turns to speak.

“My father.” He offers fondly as his azure eyes settle on her. “I come to speak with him often.”

Catra pulls at the threads of her desert cloak as she approaches and looks down at the altar. There's a threaded mat set beneath her feet that's been buried in slightly in red sand, the soft threads beaded up into the balls of her feet have a sort of grit and grain that she feels she doesn't mind. Even the sand here was soft and silky...cool to the touch. A nearby candle bathes the grey rock in orange...flickering a little she feels as if she's looking up at the altar rather than down.

She quickly turns her head to the side only to see how high up they truly are. The cavern sprawls beneath them from here, they must've climbed at least several feet to earn such a view. Greeted by no other sight than the thousands of stone stacks piling and populating the cavern like sand grains in the desert, their trails of incense and candle heat scenting the cavern like smokey spice. Something about it makes her teeth ache and eyes burn.

C’orin’s voice is soft when he speaks. “Is there someone you would like to speak with, my lady?”

__________

The altar was supposed to have something of the fallen’s.

Something to tie and tether their presence when a vigil was to be held. Adora hadn’t ever really _had _much. And what she did have she’d taken with her.So Catra’s forced to improvise when she collects the fragmenting remains of her force captain badge. She’d broken it after her defection, to sever all ties and prevent the Horde from tracking her back to Bright Moon.

There hadn't been any real reason to not chuck into oblivion so she doesn’t really know why she kept it. A keepsake maybe? A reminder.

And now something sacred as Catra chews the inside of her cheek and places the useless piece of metal at the foot of the altar, green wings of the emblem flaring up in a familiar arc. She reasons that it had always been Adora’s first anyways.

She spends endless hours at the cliff face after that. Tending to her alter and carefully lighting the incense sticks in silence. Laying the wayward badge onto the flat-rock with gentle reverent hands before she kneels down onto the prayer mat whispering the rites C’orin recited to her. Bowing her head down into the sand and folding her chin to her chest while she…well, while she - prayed.

It almost becomes something like routine.

Like breathing.

Her guards, thankfully, never follow her up into the rock face. Granting her a wide berth of privacy while they situate themselves at the sandy foot of the rock shelves below, cross legged in the sand while they waited.

C’orin had taught her all the right phrases. How to light the candles, how to curl and bow and balance her breaths. How to tend, wash and brush the rigid surface so to keep mold from overtaking.And how to weight and weigh each stone like a scale before shifting the weight till the tower held like a mountain.

It’d all become second nature. The motions pulling the air through and out her lungs with each fluid movement until she’s seated and folded on the mat looking up at the cold pallid alter that never offers so much as a thank you.

__________

The Bright Moon envoy arrives at New Half Moon under the guise of a political mission intent on revisiting the conditions of the spice trade. But Catra knows what they’re really here for.

She’d been waiting.

.

.

**.**

**.**

“Your majesty.”

The young queen is…not so young anymore. Not in the face, not in the posture. The way she carries herself having bled into a new essence of confidence. A self assuredness that’s only emphasized by the regal headdress and flowing Bright Moon robes draped across her front. Catra second handedly notes that she’d grown her hair out.

“…I should say the same.” Glimmer acknowledges from the dias, slightly elevated on the impromptu council ring which had set up in grand tent at the center of camp. A few other princesses and some lesser political representatives for those not present, to bear witness…Behind the queen Catra sets her eyes to the encasement propped up high and clearly displayed in all it's striking magnificence for all to see. The sword.

She doesn't know why they tote the damn thing around like they do, it's not as if anybody gets any use out of it anymore. But she supposes it served as some kind of symbol...for morale or whatever they wanted to justify it for. Catra thinks it belongs in a vault. In some forgotten dusty treasure hall back at Bright Moon behind bars and out of sight for once. She takes in how well taken care of it looks. Polished. Sharpened. Just as good as how its master had once tended it, with care and tender respect in the training grounds. The blade and metal sat across leather padded knees, under the shade of the courtyard bannisters...sitting there on the marble steps buffing the steel 'till Catra could see her reflection smiling back in the polish sheen - and the sun glances off in an explosive yellow flare as she comes to peer over shoulder...Catra blinks. The glint and mirror of the blade dances orange and ember in the candlelight like a blackened monolith in the dark. The guard, engraved with familiar etchings and swirling patterns, feathers its wings to reach out as it harbors the hilt of the cutting steel. And the cerulean gem encrusted into it's center...Catra's ears perk slightly atop her head as it swims oceans and visions into the depths...its quiet disposition stoking something old and bitter.

Catra's eyes flicker when they break eye contact and settle back on the queen.

“It’s only a title.” Catra states. A little meek. A little shallow as she stands small and vulnerable in the center of the circle. Her formal Half Moon cloak, embroidered with the signature North Star insignia at the shoulder, does little to soothe her. S’ya had done her best to make her look somewhat presentable, salt rubbing her skin clean raw and steam pressing out her clothes for the occasion. But underneath the unreadable stoic eyes of what remained of the Alliance, Catra still feels woefully underdressed.

Glimmer hums contemplatively. Leaving nothing for Catra to discern her emotions. It sparks a small seed of resentment in her gut when she finally breaks the silence.

“You said we would postpone my sentence until after the war.”

A pregnant pause.

“I did.”

Stiff and static.

“It’s after. What now Sparkles?”

The room goes silent as all faces turn to Glimmer. Candle’s flickering louder than anyone’s heartbeats. Everyone holding their breath and waiting for the moment that had been fast approaching since the day Catra defected.

“…As queen of Bright Moon it is my solemn and sworn duty to punish the Horde’s numerous offenses and bring justice for the fallen.”

Catra’s breathes in as Glimmer looks down at her from the dias, head raised and shoulders pulled back in the candlelight like some pillar of justice. Catra would roll her eyes if she didn't feel so close to that final triumphant verge.

“As such it is my royal decree that in reparations for your crimes you shall remain in the custody of the magi cats currently under the rule of the First Mane S’ya Dirulth I. Your fate shall be decided by your own.” Glimmer finishes promptly and neatly. Seating herself once more and folding her hands across the scrolls and papers detailing what Catra can only guess are the details on the spice trade. Catra feels as if she’s been lanced by lightning.

“that’s it?” Without any forethought or acknowledgement Catra traces the notes and hollow of her voice that trails up into the air. The wiry and feather tone that wisps like the smoke off of the wick in glow and ember through the eve on the altars and flat stones. Glimmer’s hands give pause. Her eyes only trailing back up to Catra’s trembling fists when she speaks again. Her mouth feels so dry and raspy as her lungs expand and shutter shut behind her ribs.

“You-…you can’t be serious.” Catra bites hard to stifle the quiver. “I killed your mother. I slaughtered thousands.”

Perfuma readjusts in her seat, side glancing at Mermista who’s eyes hesitantly flicker from her and back to Catra. They don't matter.

“I uprooted homes. I ripped apart families! I. - Am the cause for unfathomable deaths! You can’t just let that go!”

She grasps the linen of her cloak to keep from shaking under the pressure. _S'ya wouldn't lay a finger on her. The magicats all but worshipped her._

“Princess C’yra.-“

“She’s dead because of me.”

“Perhaps we should take a recess.-“ Perfuma tries.

“She’s gone. You know that right? She’s gone and I - didn’t you love her?”

There’ s a flutter of papers as a number of princesses converse and insist and argue over her words. Drawing lines and making points A through Z about morality and war talk and reparations and setting examples and - Catra just chases after the threads of what she’s been trailing for so many sleepless nights and days spent alone falling apart in Half Moon. Glimmer’s gaze pulled stiff and - unreadable, locked onto Catra amidst the din and chaos as Catra all but reaches and crawls towards her confession. The oceanic blue flashes in disaproval down on her on high in a way so familiar that it aches. She heaves another breath into the emptiness.

“Didn’t she mean anything to you? I could’ve stopped her. I was _with _her. And now she’s-“

“Catra.”

Catra breathes in. Breathes in, breathes in, breathes in and holds. Firm to the mast of the wayward ship still buffering under the waves that have turned grey and stormy from the deep drowning blue. 

A stiff and impenetrable silence that rings after a storm in the carnage. Catra can feel it looking down on her.

“…I’ve made my peace with what happened. I hope you can do the same.”

…

“…I mean that.”

…

__________

The stone place is always quiet at night. Hollow. Nothing but the quiet flickering of altar candles there to keep watch over her while she quietly sets to work lighting the incense, muttering the rites and pressing her head into the sand. The stillness and quiet cloaking her shoulders and settling over like a wave.

…

_ **….** _

_ **…..** _

“……..hey, Adora.”

…

Breathe in.

“…You woulda really liked this crap. Talking to the dead…really up your alley.”

…

“..yeah. You were stupid like that.”

…

“…you were always so stupid. Always had to play the hero. Always got yourself into trouble because of it. People liked you for it. Kyle, Rog. Lonnie…”

…

“And it went to your godamn fucking head, you know.” Fist clenched so tight around the North Star at her shoulder that she worries she may have ripped the fabric open.

…

“You never listened to me. If you had just listened. I-“

…

“Maybe you were listening,”

…

“Maybe you heard every godamn cowardly thing I ever said. Every reason, every threat, every time I pleaded- begged…And it wasn’t enough."

…

“……I was really trying you know. I was really trying to - to make it up to you. To do the right thing…to be enough.”

The stones are as cold and dead as they were when she'd first stacked them. Staring back at her welling eyes emotionlessly with nothing to offer or give. Catra turns her head to the side and pauses to breathe before lighting her ninth incense stick that night and bowing her head once more. 

__________

Catra’s not particularly good at basket weaving. In fact she’s terrible at it. The flexible green blades cut at her knuckles as she runs the wooden chuck down the length of the checker patterns. And her hands become irritatingly sticky from the bleeding plant. But that of course doesn’t stop S’ya from acting as if she is and shoving an armful of river reeds into her lap and folding her legs underneath the floor before setting to work on her own basket.

The candle light flickers orange and soothing from inside S’ya’s tent like an oven, the fire pooling shadows in the hollow of their legs while they face the star lit sky above.

It’s a peaceful silence. Easy and comfortable despite Catra’s shameful basket and bleeding hands. And the kittens run around tussling in the sand and pale star light, grabbing each others fur tufts and rolling over and under each other in screaming laughter. Catra watches them and runs her thumb across the wooden tool, her hands gone limp into her lap.

...

...

.....

“…….have they ever spoken back?”

S’ya pauses, her comb halting halfway down the length of the flat grass thread and lifting her face towards Catra’s which doesn’t stray from the two kittens pulling at each other in the dunes. Their small Half Moon desert capes fluttering and drawing flaring ribbons of sand in open air.

“It’s just-…I was trying to-…”

The grains kicking up like white caps.

She tries again. “To-…”

Catra tilts her head to the sky. The stars blazing and swirling above them. Swooping and cartwheeling endlessly into space. Space...so much space above their heads as she looks up at the sky now. The moon. And the stars and distant planets. At comets and asteroids and constellations. Whorls and belts of cosmic dust glittering and decorating the inky canvas that spreads for miles and miles of infinity. So much distance sprawling across between here and wherever else. Somewhere else. It makes her think of lonely nights spent in the force captain's quarters. To a time when she'd reach out in the middle of night expecting to feel the touch and press of a warm shoulder only to sweep and smooth down the cool barren surface of the mattress. Everything had always felt so out of reach then. So far away and impossible. And this...she doesn't know what that makes this.

Catra isn't aware of exactly when she started shaking or when S’ya had enveloped and brought her sobbing into her lap. But she falls into it and breathes in in in to fill the empty space in her chest cavity.

“I’ve been trying for so long, aunt S’ya,”

“shh, cub...I know”

Catra's bloodied hands clench and grasp at S'ya's linens as she buries her face into the threads. The shockwaves running through her like waves of lightning splitting her in halves. In fourths. In eighths. In bits and pieces scattered and strewn across the threaded mat beneath them, Catra keening like a dying animal for the entirety of it all.

S'ya's face and hands press into her mane as she bows forward and does her best to hold the fragments together in a whole. Rumbling smooth and low into her ear as she purrs.“But this is a gift only you can give.”

__________

He’s grown a beard.

Or…well, it’s the beginnings of a beard. A dark shadow that undercuts the edge of his jaw and prickles up the sides of his face. It’s not..terrible. The extra bristle does little to sharpen his soft doe eyes. But Catra does lament that it makes it harder to recognize what she’s sure she knows.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the trial. Glimmer’s had me busy with Dryl.”

Catra stares across the valleys of sand as her and Bow stand side by side, mounted high atop a wavering dune that’s already begun shifting in the wind. Catra thinks she should be used to it by now. The way the landscape changes. The way the ocean sways. But she can’t help be blinded by the yellow backed waves each day S’ya drags her out of her tent squinting in the gleam of the sun. Because it's always just so - _bright, _in the desert. And practically blinding on a clear and cloudless day like now, a storm of blue and yellow surrounding and wrapping her in it's vibrancy until she's lost in the futile desperation of it all.

He clears his throat. “S’ya tells me you don’t eat very well. “

She pulls at the fabric of her linens. Hand rested at the North Star as she analyzes the expanse with narrow squinting eyes.

“…Catra, you have to-“

“You knew.”

…

“You helped her. Didn’t you.”

…

“S’all I’ve been able to think about.” Catra holds the embroidered star in her palm, turned away as she tucks her chin down to her chest and she can see how the imprints of her footsteps have already started to dissipate in the sand…“Someone had to hold the portal open on this side for her to go in.”

…

“It was you.”

…

“I thought it was Glimmer. For the longest time…but she’s too much like me…selfish. She wouldn’t have let her go…”

She turns to face him. His sand cloak fluttering at the treads of threading by his feet.

“But Adora trusted you.” She locks onto his eyes, tries to find a lie. A truth. Written somewhere in the iris and the lines like a book as the wind tickles her mane and brushes against her cheeks. “She knew you’d help her.”

…

…

…

“…it’s what she wanted.”

She’s not sure if she expected him to deny it. But now that he hasn’t she feels like she wishes he had and then soon after how stupid she is for wanting that. She looks at the ground, at the ghost of her footprints. At the dunes. At the flowing landscape. Trying to find something solid stand on. “Let me guess she…she left a message for me with you?” She turns her face to the sun. Towards bright and glaring spears that make her eyes water. “Something heartfelt and heroic right? 'It was the only way. I want you to live your life for the both of us now.' ” She bites the words out as they leave her.

“ 'I _love _you.' ” The pins prick at her eyes and she grits her teeth as if to ward them off with her fangs.

“…Something like that. “

…

“And…”

…

“that she’s sorry.”

…

“Not just for this but for…for everything.”

…

“That she woke up every morning and looked at you, trying to figure out what to say and how to make everything better again.”

…

“That she would’ve spent every day for the rest of her life trying to make it up to you.”

Somewhere amidst the swirl and flame of the burning sun, it's rays so bright and blinding they bring her to tears, Catra can almost see it.

__________

It feels like clockwork now.

Endless hours spent bent and bowed over in the velvet sand makes her wonder if she’s ever left this cave at all. If she’s ever known anything but the press of her fur against the grains. The scent of pine incense and the threads of her prayer mat grazing against her shins.

She wonders if she’s ever known a world apart from this one. Outside this cave. Far away from this heart ache. Sometimes she's not sure. 

But when she closes her eyes. Breathes in the memory that curls around her and holds her close. She can remember the sun. The feeling of waking up in the grass and someone’s lap while their hands brush and comb through her mane in the garden’s of Bright Moon. She can hear the ringing of laughter. Feel the arm around her shoulder and the press of a warm body into her side. Hands in her hair and breath across her face.

And two horde orphans, curled up in a military bunk to keep each other warm through the night.

“I’m sorry.”

It feels…like exhaling the weight of the world.

__________

She sends for Double Trouble on the eve of Ra. What the magicats have taken to calling the third and final opening of the portal. The festivities were planet wide, it’s presence felt in every kingdom and village in Etheria. Long and seemingly endless feasts and dances that had become a week long commemoration in honor of the She-Ra reigned long tirelessly at this time of year. But no kingdom honored the occasion more than the desert cats of the Crimson Waste.

Fireworks and grand displays of arts and sciences, plays and renactments of the elder legends - vibrant colorful banners. Intricate swirling designs painted into their regular fur patterns. Sun beating down and blazing through the day, the stars and moon carrying them through the nights of rising waning music. Catra did her best to attend the majority of banquets and oficities, watching the kits running through open tents like rushing rivers and chasing each others tails, eating treats, singing. Laughing. But tonight…tonight was meant for her.

That’s what she reminds herself when Double Trouble’s footsteps sound from the foot of the open cliffside.

She doesn’t turn immediately. Takes her time as she lights another incense stick and places it carefully on the stone. Bowing her head against the ground and pressing her forehead into the dirt. Mumbling the rites hushed and familiar as the motions carry her through and over like an undercurrent before she rises once more as she draws to a close. 

She’s not terribly high up. Maybe a couple feet on one of the lower rock outputs that place her just above Double Trouble’s full height. High enough to feel an assuring sense of empowerment, but not so far that she can’t discern their expression…

They look a bit older than Catra remembers. Their face a little more narrow. Their cheekbones a little higher. And the tear in their ear where Catra had once ripped it ragged seemed to be healing nicely, the treads and tatters now limp and crooked but shaved back neatly to a stub. It wasn’t pretty but it could’ve been worse. Catra had been going for the eyes after all…

When Catra’’s eyes flicker to theirs, they blink. Not particularly nervous. Or anxious. It’s not an emotion that fits them well. But otherwise, they’re unreadable.

“Your majesty.” They say, bowing calm and slow as they descend at the waist. One hand to their chest in humble sweeping motions.

She flicks her tail to dismiss C’orin and the other guards, their Ra embroidered desert capes fluttering silently in the evening haze as they recede back to the mouth of the enclave. When they’re finally alone, she speaks.

“You speak of my aunt.” Catra comments dispassionately. Watches as Double’s good ear flicks, their head still bent low to their chest and one hand formally crooked at the crease of their back in salute. “It’s just Catra…for now.”

Gradually, Double’s curling bow unfolds slow and easy. Languid and relaxed leaving Catra to wonder if it’s just a rouse as they unwind to a straight ram rod posture. She raises her chin and takes them in.

“Hey, Double.”

Their smile is easy and fond. “Kitten.”

“I was curious if you would actually show.” Catra says, back gone a little lax and loose as she falls into the conversational patterns of an old friend. The blaze and din of the campsite and festivities glowing in the distance across the twilight sands.

“And miss Ra? Darling please. You and I both know there’s no other place to be when there’s a magicat rave. Your kind know how to party.” Their voice is just as clever, just as sharp as she remembers. A know it all flirt through and through. It brings Catra’s lips to a bemused tilt as she looks down at them from the elevated cliff face.

“…I was however, surprised. To be welcome at the festivities.” Catra’s tail flicks. “Let alone receive an invite.” They trail off as they rake their eyes across the arc of the cave’s expanse. Then back to Catra. Calm and steady. “If that’s what this really is.”

“I didn’t call you here to have you executed if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Then what?”

Catra remains still. Lost in thought as she rubs her thumb across the smooth surface of the stone alter for some phantom of support. It’s quiet for a long time then. Quiet as she thinks and mulls over the thoughts in her head, the words in her mouth. Both no more tangible or coherent than the emotions thrumming through the course of her bloodstream.

Catra squeezes the stone under her palm. The smooth surface emanating a soft warmth that lulls her weary heartbeat down back into her chest before she lifts her foot for that first timid step. Catra descends the rock shelf, sand stone steps echoing up into the caverns as she draws closer to an intrigued Double Trouble, their green complexion tinted orange and flickering in the candlelight. Close up, they do still look older. But Catra can see that the lines are all still in the right spot. She draws a deep calming breath and speaks.

“What did she offer you?”And Catra’s proud that her voice doesn’t audibly wobble and shake. The weight of her voice carrying true and clear up into the caverns.

“Pardon, darling. I’m not sure I understand.”

“Adora.” The name stings as it leaves her. But she leans into the hurt and looks up at Double who’s the most fixed and sober Catra’s ever seen them. “What did…what did she offer you for tricking me. That day,”

...

Catra swallows. “It’s just…you must’ve known I would’ve doubled her price. Trippled it. So what did…what did she offer you” She holds fast and grits her teeth - struggles against the meaningless question that’s been changing shape and haunting her for 3 full years now.

_When did you switch. Was it your idea, or hers._

_Why didn’t I see it coming._

_why. -_

It claws at her ribcage from the inside like a dying animal. Scratching to get free from the bonfire set aflame in her heart. Her fist threatens to rip the red and orange fabric of her cloak where the magicat symbol for Ra is stitched and embroidered into the seams. She’s done so well these last few years. She doesn’t know why this is still so hard. It shouldn’t be this hard.

“Please I-“

The squeeze of Double’s hand on her shoulder grounds her even as she looks up at them through the blurry illusive tears. And Double Trouble doesn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything left that they could say that hadn’t already been said._ I’m sorry. She loved you._ Catra’s sick of it.

“Can…can I see her? I’ll pay-…” because she’s not interested in having Double lecture her on mental wellness and what was and wasn’t a good idea. She gets her fair share of that from S’ya and Scorpia and herself for the majority of the year. But she could - slip today…just this once.

Before she can think to forgo the idea entirely, familiar hands are cupping her cheeks and wiping away the tears in a way that only they could ever hope to soothe. And silver blue eyes that glisten and shine with a sweet and hopeful glint she remembers so well are gazing back at her. She’s got her hair half up, half down. Wearing the signature Half Moon colors and a desert cloak like Catra’s and it - Catra chokes a little on a sob before reaching up. Hesitating only once before landing both hands gentle and tender on those flushed cheeks which have the telltale sign of sun burn. The skin on her nose and exposed skinflaking a little from a long day spent in the sun. Dancing in the festival. Magicat face paint designs marked and scored across her forehead and the crease of her eyes, golden fur patterned stripes drawn down the length of her arms…

She’s a little older. Like the rest of them. A little fuller. A little taller. And she smiles. Soft and familiar tenderness that bleeds into her voice like honey. “S’on the house.”

And so Catra spends the rest of the night tracing and ingraining every detail, every curve and shadow and valley of Adora’s face into her memory. Quietly letting the tears wash and muddy the paint staining the fur on her own face late into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no. I made myself sad.
> 
> Honestly,,this wasn't as refined as I'd like it to be but....there you go
> 
> Please comment freely and constructively; feedback both positive and critical helps more than you know! Remember to drop in and read again every once in a while. I tend to come back and edit/add small changes 2-3 days after posting (because for some reason my proof reading and editing skills don't fully activate unless I've already hit post ???)


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